


Public Transport

by Write_like_an_American



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)
Genre: Bottom Yondu Udonta, Dual Genitalia, Exhibitionism, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Sex, public fingering, pussy!yondu, what better way to kickstart the stakar/yondu tag than with porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-15
Updated: 2017-06-15
Packaged: 2018-11-14 12:23:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11208006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Write_like_an_American/pseuds/Write_like_an_American
Summary: Yondu and Stakar enjoy a quick illicit fumble on a tram.That's it; that's the plot.





	Public Transport

**Author's Note:**

> **This is the least plotty, least meaty smut I have ever written. 'Least meaty' in all senses of the word, because pretty much all the attention is on Yondu's pussy. I'm sorry.**

“So this is how it's gonna play?” Yondu growls.

Stakar is a cold man, a calculating one. He does not forgive easily. He also takes more pleasure than he cares to admit as he rolls with the other passengers, smudging Yondu against the wall like a fly on a windscreen.

Unfortunately, Yondu doesn't splat. He does snarl though, and Stakar can feel how the urge to fight ramps through his body, winding every muscle tight, before Yondu forces it out with an exhale and a bared mouthful of crooked, silver-capped teeth, looking like someone's fished in a bag of projectile bullets from the pre-plasma age. The smell of his breath makes Stakar recoil, where it bounces off the reinforced glass.

“You an' me, we don't even acknowledge each other no more?”

It's tempting not to reply. Certainly, Stakar has other things to focus on. The overhead wires veer around a junction, setting the carriage swinging.

Stakar's used to danger – has made a living out of it, in fact. But there's a difference between throwing oneself into battle and dying nobly on the field, and dying while crammed sardine-style into a passenger carriage on the most polluted city this side of the Galactic Core. The infernal rocking and the loud creaks that accompany it, as they rollercoaster through the planet-city suspended a thousand meters above the streets, don't exactly set his mind at ease.

“I was following your lead,” he tells Yondu. Mostly because it distracts him from the view, as skyscrapers sheer into sudden drops, smog-tinted cumulonimbi gushing around them like they're plowing through a dirty snowbank.

Yondu smiles. It might be charming, if it weren't so metallic. “Well, ain't that a nice change!”

“Hmph.” Stakar leans his pelvis into the next swing, hanging onto the overhead hoops with both hands. He doesn't fail to notice the noise. It could've been mistaken for the groan of rusted spring, if it weren't for the corresponding mist of breath that appears on the window by Yondu's cheek. “Don't get used to it.”

“Spoilsport,” gasps Yondu. And, it could be Stakar's imagination, but next time they crush together, Yondu pushes back.

Well.

It's been a while, that's for sure. They got on this tram alone, and will exit it in a similar fashion. There isn't another redcoat to be seen. In fact, Yondu has dressed down for this venture – which immediately puts Stakar on edge, because so has he. If Yondu's trying to steal jobs out from under him...

Stakar lets him get away with a lot. He rescued the boy, after all. Pried him from his cage in the abandoned slave market, where he'd been left to starve after the Kree Empire disowned their barbaric trade, his mouth smeared with the blood of his cellmates who'd either succumbed in the night, or hadn't been strong enough to fight off a hungry Centaurian.

You can't help but feel fondness for wild things, once you've tamed them. Even after they betray you.

Stakar still remembers the throb of the star within him, when Martinex collated the evidence and timidly placed it on his desk. _Udonta has been trading in children._

Given Yondu's own past, Stakar had never entertained the thought that he'd been the one to disobey Ravager law in this, the most sacrilegious of ways. That had been his mistake. The mind works strangely. Considering his sermonizing about eradicating sentiment and living without fear of loss, perhaps Yondu sees that cage as a formative experience, not as the blow that had broken a child sold by his parents before he could even say their names.

But whatever the cause, what he's done is unforgivable. And Stakar would be untrue to himself if he ever lets Yondu forget it.

“What are you doing here?” he asks. His mouth hovers by Yondu's ear, almost close enough to brush the pierced lobe. “Business, or pleasure?”

Stakar's solar wings are flattened. They're far too distinctive for him to wear on display, but like hell is he leaving them behind. They stick out far enough to jab into Yondu's back, as Stakar is crushed into him by the crowd.

Yondu has yet to complain. He makes another noise, this time loud enough to have the man sandwiched against his side, his back to the pair of them, glance around in confusion.

Stakar resists the urge to cover Yondu's mouth – if only because they're wedged so well in their corner that he can't move his arms from where they're stretched over his head. Or at least, not both at once.

If he angles his upper body away, keeping his pelvis tight to Yondu for stability, and worms his other hand carefully between them, like he's slotting a knife between two ribs, he can hook a finger through his belt buckle and roll his thumb in a languid circle, testing the tight stretch of the leather over Yondu's ass.

It's been a very, _very_ long while.

Aleta is going to be so disappointed.

“I... Cap'n... Stakar...” Yondu arches, best he can. He's almost endearingly eager. Stakar's not surprised. Ever since Yondu's banishment, he's greeted Stakar with respect, like a scolded dog looking to make amends: two thumps on his chest and a nervous half-bow. Trapped against the window, there's no way Yondu can perform that subservient little ritual, as expected of every Ravager in the presence of their Admiral.

When Stakar first entered, he'd fallen back on his usual defence: sass. But now, as Stakar runs his palms over wear-smoothed leather, that defence starts to crumble.

He's in his mid twenties – where exactly, Stakar has no idea. He hadn't had time to hunt out his stats, as he hauled the dead-eyed boy over his shoulder and ran from the burning station. But regardless of age, Yondu's been an outcast for three years. And, from the cuttings Stakar clips from the intergalactic gossip-vine, he's well on his way to building a band of his own. He'll be quite the captain. Stakar doesn't doubt it – it was what he raised him to be.

However, Stakar has ten years on him. Ten years of experience, ten years of leadership, and ten years of fingering cunts to climax.

Oh yes – Stakar knows the secret kept between Yondu's legs. He was very intimate with it, at one point in his life, before those reports landed on his desk with all the bite of a blade in the back. And right now, as he ghosts his finger along Yondu's zipper, thinking of times long past, the Yondu in his memory and the one in front of him right now shudder, and spread their legs in synch.

Pride is a hard thing for a Yondu to conquer. And while Stakar may be cold, he's never been cruel. He doesn't make Yondu beg – at least not verbally. Yondu's body does a good enough job of that.

He shivers as he's unzipped. And, when Stakar worms his hand up high enough to spit on it, then down again into the tight squash of bodies to peel open Yondu's soft mound, he's rewarded with the crash of his implant against the window.

A few of the passengers turn, but clonks and clatters are expected when the carriage is this crowded. While some wince on Yondu's behalf, none bother to look down.

Stakar keeps his composure cool. He smiles politely at the commuters until they lose interest. All the while cupping Yondu, holding that warm cradle of his body in his hand.

Then he grinds the heel of his palm over him, wet fingers landing on either side of his clit. He doesn't make to touch it. Not yet. He doesn't need to – there's more of Yondu to explore.

Having two of the genital components typically singularly afforded to bipedals in this quadrant, everything's a bit crowded. Yondu's balls brush his nails, cool and hairless. When Stakar leans forwards, forcing Yondu to bend at the waist until he mimics the wall's gradient, he manages to squeeze his hand far enough through his thighs to give his sack a thorough fondling.

A whine spurts from Yondu's opposite end. It's lost beneath the mumble of conversation around them, and the neverending grind of the tram.

“Well,” murmurs Stakar, tugging gently and paying each testicle individual attention with his thumb. His wrist skates moisture. “You're wet already. Have you been thinking of this since I got onboard?”

Yondu lurches like he's considering kicking. Stakar dissuades him, massaging in even circles. He presses his wrist upwards. The buckle holding his armguard in place sits nicely between the lips, which Stakar imagines have flushed a very pretty shade of oceanic blue – the same color he sees darkening Yondu's ears.

He doesn't catch a grubby earlobe in his mouth and suck to the pulse of his grinds. That would be too obvious. The citizens surrounding them are in a rush, not stupid. With that in mind, Stakar minimizes the rotation of his shoulder joint as much as possible.

Releasing Yondu's balls, he scooches his hand rearwards. He pauses as he crests tender folds, testing the consistency of the slick, before slotting a finger inside.

He has to work it in slowly. Moving from the elbow, his blunt fingertip sticks on the textured flesh. With a grunt, he wriggles his hand free and applies more spit, hoping the office pen-pushers surrounding them will assume he's sucking a papercut.

When he gets back to it, he can sink his longest digit fully to rest while his index caresses Yondu's clit.

The angle's hell, but Stakar perseveres. His wrist will be bitching in the morning, but it's nothing a swig of moonshine won't cure. That in mind, Stakar delves deeper, until the broad root of his finger tugs on that pliant little hole.

Yondu clings, supple and silky. Stakar scoops some of the excess slick to massage into the valley between the labia, nail digging hard enough to make Yondu twitch.

For a moment, he thinks he's going to fight. But Stakar curls his finger in shallow thrusts, hooking back towards his ass. It's away from his g-spot, but Yondu still relaxes, pussy opening sweetly to each inwards press.

The pair of them are so close that Stakar's hand bumps his own crotch whenever he draws it out. The constant nudge against his groin reminds him that Yondu's not the only one getting something out of this.

He tugs the finger from Yondu's cunt – with difficulty, as Yondu clamps closed around him, and accompanied by a long drool of silver-blue slick. Yondu makes a crotchety grunt, feeling it web his groin, clinging to the zipper. But Stakar's quick to reward. He shuffles to one side, so he can rub his crotchpiece over Yondu's left asscheek in rhythm with the wet circle he paints around his clit.

Once he's got his breaths shaking in his throat, catching with every press, he starts to stroke him directly. The smooth diagonal flicks have never failed to drive Yondu wild in the past. Evidently, while so much has changed between them, Yondu's body is still susceptible.

Watching him tense, watching him squirm, watching him rock his pelvis desperately into the motions, boots pushing apart until they bump the feet of the commuters packed in all around him, who are only a glance and a sniff away from realizing what's going on...

It's exhilarating. Invigorating in a way no heist has been, not since those reports smacked the dirty chrome of his desk.

Stakar has missed this. He'd be lying if he claimed otherwise.

Yondu's trying to control himself – doing a pretty good job of it, actually. If it weren't for his hitching exhales, the tilt of his hips and the way he pushes up onto the balls of his feet, questing after more sensation, you'd never be able to tell he was nearing orgasm. Stakar's only too delighted to help him along his way.

Every so often, his curled digits stir at the slit of Yondu's pussy, teasing the tender entrance, fucking lightly through the ring.

He thinks it's that which undoes him: the dabble of fingertips against his opening, smearing the slick, forcing Yondu to acknowledge how wet and needy he's become...

Yondu's back cranks tight. His head tosses back, chin smacking the window. He cums wet and violent, twitching like he's been shocked, pussy contracting and spurting, pulsing against Stakar's palm.

Stakar cups him there, holding him through it. If he weren't using the overhead handhold, he'd have offered Yondu a reach around – basic courtesy, that. Maybe even given his own cock a tug. It would be standing tall, if it weren't bundled inside its protective cup. Yondu (judging by the balls Stakar'd played with earlier) has opted out for this mission. He'll be getting a nice stain on the front of his pants right about now.

His pussy's certainly given up the goods. Yondu's breathless whine, which has their fellow passengers turning to locate the source, is less appreciated.

“Stand straight,” Stakar hisses. “Act natural.”

There's a thrill when Yondu obeys, almost mindless in his post-orgasmic need to please. It doesn't make up for the atrocities he's committed in the Ravager name – not even close. But it's a reminder of simpler times. Pleasanter times. When it was him and Stakar, and the open stars.

Yondu manages to haul himself upright for the duration of the passengers' scrutiny, staring dead-ahead as if he hasn't just been fingerfucked in public like some two-chit sexbot. Stakar keeps his damp hand pressed between his thighs, stroking through the zipper, petting quivering, slick-smeared muscle.

“Good boy,” he whispers.

It's supposed to be soothing. And surprisingly, it is. Yondu relaxes back against him, riding out the tremors of the tram as it clanks into the next station. Many passengers get off. More pile on. And through the shift of bodies, some of which jostle Stakar and Yondu directly, Stakar keeps his hand right where it is: one finger poised on the cusp of penetration, another gliding over Yondu's tingling clit. Once the carriage sways back into motion, he starts to nudge that little blue bead once again, in time with the buffet of the smog-laden wind.

Yondu meets his eyes in the window, trembling in time with the pulse between his legs. “Does this mean we're good?”

Stakar laughs. Yondu's expression doesn't change – chin up, defiant, lower jaw clenching so hard the veins on either side of his temple tic. But his hands, resting on the sweat-squeaking glass, curl into fists.

“Puncture this pod with your arrow and we all suffocate,” Stakar reminds him.

The flash of the announcement beacon indicates he has one stop to go. That means either he and Yondu are getting off together – in which case the chance they're working the same job increases tenfold, and Stakar'll have no choice but to kill him – or Yondu plans on continuing to the tramline's terminus. He could ask which it is. He could slit Yondu's throat here and now; save himself the danger of letting that arrow loose in an open space.

But somehow, he thinks as he traces silky labia, such a fate would be unfitting. Ravagers deserve to go out in battle. Even dishonored ones.

When the cabin judders into its bay, its vents open once the airlock has clamped shut behind them, introducing a much-needed gush of fresh air. Yondu swallows, twisting so his profile lays flat against the windowpane. His red glare bores Stakar through.

“Y'know what? Yeah. I might have couriered the occasional brat back to their daddy. But at least I never fucked 'em.”

Stakar snorts. “You were seventeen, the first time,” he says. He lists the facts unornamented, no more words than are necessary. “A child in the eyes of the Nova Empire only. And you were hardly inexperienced – you knew what you were getting into. Don't make it something it wasn't.”

“Like you're trying to make it nothing now?”

Always with the barbs, always with the jibes. It's incredible, how much Stakar thought he'd missed having a hot-headed Centaurian hollering away by his side – until he actually met the man again, and remembered how irritating he could be.

“Goodbye, Udonta,” he says. He doesn't shake out his solar wings, leap onto the platform, and soar up into the heavens, as far away from Yondu and his capped teeth, bad breath, and invitingly juicy pussy as he can – but it's mighty tempting. “I have a job to do. And this is my stop.”

He slots his fingers into him one more time – a last goodbye. Yondu wheezes, hands making a rubbery squeak as they drag against the windowpane.

Stakar's stare remains glacial. He unplugs him with a twist and a squelch, ignoring the full-body quiver, and leaves. He has the kindness to zip him up first.

 

* * *

 

 

Yondu rests his forehead on the glass.

He doesn't watch him go – he's seen Stakar walk away from him more times than he cares for.

He stares into the smog-smothered city as slick and cum slide along the crinkles inside his leathers. Then lets his lashes droop, until the fuzz of neon lights dissolve into the black of his eyelids.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> **Enjoy a completely unedited super-fast smut I tapped out on the train home from seeing gotg 2!**


End file.
